


Peasant on the Hill

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Coming Untouched, Domestic Fluff, Dominant/Top Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourth part to the Chicago Verse. Please read previous parts for this to make sense. Years after S8, the boys settle down in a neighborhood of Chicago. A few things change for the better and some haven't changed at all. WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peasant on the Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings in place with the tags. Quite a bit of explicit sexual content in this installment. 
> 
> Spanish bits!  
> Altito: affectionate way of referring to someone as the Tall One  
> El rubio: the Blonde One
> 
> Comments, feedback, etc. are all greatly appreciated! I'm quite attached to this verse.

“I’m not really blonde.”

She steps back, her tiny, wrinkly, soft hands on his elbows as she peers up. “Well, maybe not, but it’s lighter than Altito’s.”

“Can’t I have another nickname?”

“Hmm. How about el bajito.”

“What does that mean?”

There’s a smirk—a god help him smirk—when she replies, “The short one.”

He sticks with el rubio and cuts his losses.

 

 

Two days later he goes back—to install an actual porch umbrella—and asks: “Why can’t I be the handsome one?”

“What makes you say such a thing?”

He grunts as he pries the umbrella open with a shove. “Señora, have you actually _seen_ Sam’s face? I think he’s too tall for you to actually see it. If you did, you’d know, _I’m_ the handsome one.”

This gets a long, deep laugh from her that is better than the overtime he clocked in today.

“Mijo, don’t make me choose. You’re both handsome. If I were ten years younger…”

“Just ten?” he asks, cheekily giving her a grin.

“Yes, just ten. Both of you need an older woman to keep you in line.”

 

 

Later that night, he’s fucking Sam into a mattress. His mattress because last night they used Sam’s and neither of them wants to sleep in the old wet spot. They’ve got standards now. Well, some standards.

He’s attempting to fuck a Sam shaped hole into this mattress with the force he’s pounding at. This started off somewhat gentle for them, with a whole fifteen minutes of making out. But then Dean got impatient and Sam gave him those eyes—Jesus Christ, those eyes—and gentle snapped like an old guitar string.

Dean is pretty sure he could make a fortune in the gay porn industry. Sam takes it so easy, so eagerly, every time. Even now, when Dean’s leaving bruises and purposefully not hitting his prostate, Sam’s still begging. And that’s music to his ears.

Thud, thud, thud.

That’s the poor headboard hitting the wall with each thrust in.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

That’s the mattress springs complaining with each pull out.

There are a few reasons why they bought a house and not an apartment. Those reasons sometimes coincide with the reasons why they buy lube in bulk from the new Costco three streets over.

And why Dean might have to buy a new bed frame soon.

“I can’t,” Sam whines and arches up, pushing his hips out and back. “Oh god Dean, I can’t.”

“You will,” Dean grunts. He’s not finished yet and neither is Sam. One hand slips under to grasp the root of Sam’s cock and the other hand slips around the long, elegant curve of his neck. Dean squeezes both places with just the right amount of pressure. Sam gasps but takes it. Dean secures his position by clenching his thighs, locking him tight against Sam’s firm ass. The man runs ten miles a day but he also does these squats he thinks Dean doesn’t know about. Prissy bottom.

A flutter of the tight, velvet heat surrounding Dean’s twitching cock lets him know to ease off the throat. He lets go carefully and Sam lets out a low, broken groan. He allows a minute for Sam’s breathing to adjust and starts back up again, this time making sure he’s hitting that bundle of nerves on every third thrust.

“Here we go,” Dean growls.

This is his favorite part. He’ll tell Sam it’s good and all to fuck face to face sometimes, but this is his favorite way. He gets deeper and he can mount Sammy better. There’s more control. And what older brother doesn’t enjoy control?

The bed is complaining more insistently now that Dean’s going as fast as he can. The nightstand is shaking. He’s pretty sure everything in the room has shifted to the left a few inches.

That happens sometimes. And they’re both pretty sure it’s less from great sex and more from psychic residue that resurfaced just a few weeks ago. They’d been having breakfast one Sunday morning and they both gaped at the spoon stirring itself in Sam’s coffee mug.

“Oh shit,” Dean gasps and his hips stutter. He loses focus but picks up. Shifts the angle of his dick to the right, kicks open Sam’s knees as wide as they’ll go. Sam is white knuckling holding onto the headboard. Dean’s got his hands under Sam, pressed against his chest, occasionally flicking his fingers against the firm, dusky nipples there.

“Touch me please, please Dean,” Sam moans, tossing his head back. “I can’t. I can’t. Gotta. Please.”

They’re pressed back to chest, thighs to hips. Dean feels and hears his balls slapping against Sam’s own. He’s close. Something under his skin itches. The same thing claws at the base of his spine and winds up to the tip of his cock. He groans as feels a large pulse of precome release deep inside the space he never wants to leave.

“No, gotta have you like this.”

Sam just huffs and groans into Dean’s pillow. He can feel Sam’s arms flex and strain. Then Sam does something that involves the swivel and turn of his hips, makes his ass clench down, milking and pulling Dean in.

“Coming, coming, oh, fuck,” Sam cries out and pushes back against Dean with renewed force. “Dean! Oh shit yeah, yeah, oh god…” Dean can feel Sam’s cock twitch and pulse, coming untouched. He knows exactly what Sam’s cock looks like when it’s shooting a heavier load than usual. He’s familiar with the lines of come that will streak down, coating Sam’s firm stomach and chest. This one probably hit parts of his throat.

Dean almost loses it but reigns himself in. He’s got to make this last. He doesn’t slow down. He pounds through Sam’s orgasm and into another. They’re not teenagers anymore—not like when Dean could make Sam come three times in an hour and a half—but it’s possible and Dean _wants_.

“I can’t,” Sam manages to repeat. “I can’t, Dean.”

“You will, Sammy,” is all he offers in response.

He’ll go out and get a coconut paleta for Sam when they’re done.

He hits Sam’s prostate in long, deep, punishing strokes every time he moves. Sam whimpers and lets go of the headboard, boneless and pliable underneath Dean. Dean holds onto Sam’s ass and pulls him open.

“Ooooh shiiiiit,” Sam drawls and his entire body tenses. “Fuuuuuck!”

Dean takes a deep breath in and lets out a long, loud moan and a string of curses after, mostly in praise of the tightest, finest ass he’s ever had the pleasure of fucking.

He comes in thick ropes, cock throbbing and twitching inside Sam. His balls feel heavy as he empties into his brother, who is trembling at this point. Somehow, he manages to reach down and give Sam’s half hard cock three strokes and a twist. Sam comes again, weak spurts coating Dean’s hand, crying into the pillow.

Dean stays buried in Sam until every muscle in his body burns with pain. He pulls out and groans at the squelching sound their bodies make. Sam’s hole is puffy and pink as it leaks long strips of come. The tiny muscle flutters open and shut, convulsing still as Dean watches it. He leans down and blows a soft gust of air onto it. Sam makes a noise of appreciation.

“Leave it,” Sam requests, his voice shot.

“’Kay,” is all Dean replies, his voice equally shot. He lifts himself up and flops onto the mattress, settling next to Sam. He licks the tears away from Sam’s cheeks, threads a hand in the mess of his hair, stroking gently. “Good?”

Sam is plastered against the bed. He’ll be useless for the rest of the day and he’ll be feeling this through tomorrow.

“Mmhmm,” is lazily murmured as hazel eyes shut. Sam’s pink mouth hangs open slightly. Dean leans in and kisses that mouth. The same mouth that blew him a few hours back, when they got home from a fundraiser.

The younger Winchester found employment as a primary board member for a local nonprofit. He handles the legal and grant proposal aspects of the organization, with some assistance in programming and outreach. Dean thinks fixing engines and doing oil changes all day is far less complicated.

“Want a paleta?” Dean asks, his mouth pressed against Sam’s.

“Yeah,” Sam sniffles out.

As Dean gets up, he ruffles Sam’s hair. When they were kids they’d eat ice cream after a fuck like this. Sometimes it was because Dean felt guilty, especially when he’d pushed Sam to his limits. Ice cream was a safe treat, a peace offering, a way to say sorry without actually saying it. Other times it was a cool treat to soothe and enjoy before they had to clean up and face reality.

It’s a basketball shorts, undershirt, and sandals opportunity. He grabs a handful of change from the coin jar on the counter. Something worrying and paranoid whines in his head about leaving Sam alone, vulnerable in his fucked out state. Dean makes sure the door’s locked when he leaves, keys in hand.

He’s presentable enough for the block walk to the nearest push cart. Today it’s Mr. Vasquez’s cart.

“Señor,” Mr. Vasquez says with a nod. “How many today?”

Dean counts the change in his palm. He got lucky and there’s a dollar coin mixed in. “Three, please. Uh…two coconut and one strawberry.”

Mr. Vasquez picks four out—two of each—and hands them over. Dean tries to protest but Mr. Vasquez shuts him down. “Angela won’t stop preaching about her new umbrella. Mi querido rubio, she says, el me lo compró.” He makes a circular motion with his hand. “On and on and on. Even in church.”

“Oh,” Dean murmurs, feeling himself blush. “It was just… you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Go, before those melt.” He’s shooed off like he’s fifteen instead of forty-four. Many of the people in this community treat him and Sam like they’re in their twenties and not their forties. Like they’re sort of in tune with what actually happened in their twenties and they’re trying to cosmically make it up to them.

Less than ten minutes later and Dean is naked and beside Sam once again. He’s unwrapping one of the paletas for the Sasquatch, who has taken up most of the bed in Dean’s absence.

“Here, jeez,” Dean grumbles, choosing to ignore the grabby hands Sam makes for a second before taking the paleta. “You’re more awake now.”

Sam nods. “Sugar.”

Dean rolls his eyes and slaps Sam’s ass.

He gets shoved off the bed with a scream and a curse.

 

 

Sam thinks they have a lot of sex for guys their age. But he wouldn’t exactly know. He hasn’t had anyone to ask about these things. And he never really planned on living past the age of twenty-five. Fifteen years later and he’s still grappling with what ifs.

And having sex with your older brother isn’t a topic he can bring up to most people.

He’s not sure where Dean gets the stamina, but he’s very happy about it.

“Gonna… gonna…” Dean is squirming and writing underneath Sam. Then those green eyes roll back and a wordless groan is wrenched out of him. Sam keeps riding him, grinding down and up, putting the muscles in his thighs and lower stomach to work. He comes shortly after, stroking and shooting ropes of come all over Dean’s chest and soft middle. His brother isn’t out of shape, but he is well-fed and that makes Sam inexpressibly happy.

The bed stops screaming for mercy as Sam collapses onto Dean, making a sticky mess.

“You’re crushing me,” Dean groans and feebly tries to push him off.

“Too bad, I like crushing you.”

“Fucker. Get off. It’s too hot.”

Dean has a point. The air conditioning broke two days ago—on a Friday—and it’s Sunday so they have to wait another day to get it fixed. They’ve tried numerous things to cool down but it always ends up with them having sex in some part of the house. Yesterday had been the hallway right by the front door. The day before had been Dean’s bed, and the day before that the kitchen table. Today Sam’s bed—with fresh sheets at the start—fell victim.

Sam lazily rolls off Dean and winces when his ass makes contact with the bed.

“Sore,” Sam grumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes. “All your fault.”

“Uh huh,” is all he gets out of Dean.

They fall asleep, tired and hot.

An hour later, Sam wakes up at the sound of a paleta being opened.

“Like a dog, I swear,” Dean laughs. “Here boy.”

“Shut up,” Sam mutters and carefully sits up. He takes the paleta and moans at the first lick. “You bought extra.”

Dean shrugs and sits down next to him. They’re still naked. “Got ‘em as a thanks for putting up that umbrella.”

“Ha, I knew she’d like it.”

“Yep.”

Sam takes a moment to watch Dean wrap his lips around the paleta. It’s a near fucking crime. His cock weakly twitches with interest. He’s about to suggest round two when his cell phone rings. “Must be for the cranes,” he mumbles and grabs it off the nightstand. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize and he’s not about to pick it up for an unknown caller while his paleta melts.

“I think Mrs. Martinez was hitting on me.”

“Uh huh.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously,” Sam laughs, leans over and takes a lick of Dean’s half-finished strawberry paleta. Sam’s phone beeps just as they’re kissing, mixing strawberry and coconut paleta together. It’s sticky, sweet, and simultaneously hot and cold. How is anyone expected to get anything productive done with a mouth like that around? With a grin, Sam bites down on his brother’s full bottom lip. Dean lets out a deep, languid breathy moan.

“You startin’ somethin’ you aim to finish?” Dean asks, green eyes dark.

“Gonna make me?” Sam faintly hears his phone beep, meaning a voicemail was left, and ignores it. It’s Sunday, neither of them have any place to be. All they have to do is share space and make out like they never could as teenagers. Thinking about his teenaged self—wrapped up in everything that was and could be _Dean_ —sparks something in his chest. A small anxiety that none of this is real and he’ll wake up in a moldy motel room, listening to John snore.

Christ, he was trying to have one day without an anxiety attack.

“Quit it,” Dean growls. “You think so fuckin’ loud. And my paleta is all melted.” They separate for a few minutes to finish the paletas, tossing the wooden sticks onto the nearest nightstand. They lay side by side, somewhere in between sleeping and awake.

Sam smiles at the fact that he doesn’t always have to be on around Dean. They can go hours without talking and still _know_.

“Haven’t seen you reach for a smoke in a few days,” Dean murmurs, “that’s been kinda nice, Sammy.” He turns onto his side, back to Sam, which allows him the best view of sunburnt freckles. Sam traces a few with lazy strokes of his fingers, making Dean nearly purr. The salve Mrs. Martinez made worked like nothing had before.

“Just haven’t needed to, is all.”

Tomorrow is Monday. He’ll probably have a smoke right after the first board meeting at ten. The event is coming together, which is great, but hectic. This is a pace of things that Sam knows he can handle—mountains of paperwork to finish versus chasing after nest of vampires?—but is still adjusting to. They haven’t been on a hunt in a while and he won’t be volunteering them for any soon, either. He’s selfish right now. Selfish in a way John would be working him over about. But he can’t care. They both have weekends off and Sam needs to recount the freckles on Dean’s shoulders and back.

“Can I… can I try something?” Sam asks purposefully in his little brother voice. He doesn’t want to fight about this so he goes right for the kill.

“Guess so, sweetheart,” Dean yawns. “Long as it’s not _gay_ or nothing.”

Sam snorts into the short, prickly hairs on Dean’s neck. They’re pressed side to side now. “Nah, not gay at all.”

This time Dean snorts. “Just get it over with, would ya? Man’s trying to sleep.”

The last time they did this, the entire world was literally ending. And the only time before that, Stanford was twelve hours and a bus ride away.

Sam takes his left arm and slings it over Dean’s middle. Dean tenses up for a moment but goes pliant, willing himself to relax. Sam places his left hand directly over Dean’s heart. He’s fallen asleep to the sound of it before. And he’s felt it stop before, too. But the same can be said about Sam’s heart.

“Do you think mom and dad would’ve gotten divorced? Y’know, if.”

It’s a question that’s been rattling around in his head on quiet evenings when Dean cooks dinner and they sit in front of their tiny television, beers open and a comfortable silence in the air. It’s a question that he turns over and over in his mind when Dean calls him from the grocery store and asks if they’re out of eggs or not and should he buy the vegetables here or from the farmer’s market on Saturday?

This is the kind of life that Mary and John had, for a few years anyway.

Dean sighs, closes his eyes, and places a hand over Sam’s. “No, Sam,” he replies softly. “Don’t think they’d have split up.”

There are a thousand different lives they could’ve had. They’ve even had glimpses of them. And at one point, Sam had been so confident, so _sure_ that... He sniffles and closes his eyes. He’s working himself into something he doesn’t want to deal with.

“You are so _gay_ ,” Dean mutters and pulls away, sitting up. “Winchesters don’t fucking _cuddle_.”

Sam’s grateful for the out, even if it’s in the form of yet another gay joke.

“’m hungry,” Sam whines, sprawling out over his bed, attempting to pull Dean back. “Feed me.”

“Fuck no. And don’t fucking start. Man’s got to rest.”

There are a million things Sam can say back to that, but he lets it go with only a snort. He watches Dean get up and walk away, openly admiring the view, waiting until he’s out of sight to get up and lumber towards his own bathroom. This arrangement works for them; they each have their own rooms and bathrooms but are free to use each other’s whenever. Dean is a bit of (okay, a lot of) a control freak with having his things a certain way, so Sam is glad to have some reprieve.

He showers and takes his time. Washing the sweat and come away from him instantly makes him feel better. It’s still too hot for clothes, so he dries off and walks around the house naked, comfortable and a little sleepy but mainly hungry.

“Mrs. Martinez wants us over for dinner,” Dean announces to Sam while he’s washing out Tupperware. “It’s like she knows your lazy ass forgot to go grocery shopping.”

Sam peers into the fridge so he can protest but it’s emptier than Dean’s head in there. He lets him know that and gets cursed out to go put on some fucking clothes.

 

 

They have dinner on the tiny concrete slab that serves as a patio at Mrs. Martinez’s. Before she served anything, she asked Sam to change a few light bulbs (“Altito, help me, please”) and Dean to check the oil in her car (“I think it needs more, you tell me, okay rubio?”). Dean popped the hood of the ancient Buick and immediately knew Sam got the easy job.

“Don’t know how this even runs anymore,” he grumbles to himself. There are half a dozen problems with the car that he can see on the surface and hear from a few seconds of turning the engine on. Who knows what’s actually going on further down.

Twenty minutes pass and Dean gives up. There’s not much more he can do for the car without time, his tools, and the proper parts. He’s already put together a rough estimate of the parts—jotting them down on a scrap of paper.

“Going to have to talk to you about this later,” he murmurs to Sam as they sit down to eat. Sam glances at the paper and nods. He has no idea what anything Dean wrote means, just that it has to do with cars. Dean shakes his head. Might as well have written that shit in hieroglyphics.

Once she has everything down on the table, she says a short prayer—they bow their heads respectfully but stay silent—and starts opening dishes. The smells make Dean’s mouth water. She’s made too much, like she always does, and he’s already planning on hefting home leftovers. Maybe he’ll have steak and eggs for breakfast tomorrow. He’d never been much of a fan of Mexican food, but this is a revelation. A series of continuous miracles all to stuff his face with.

“Thank you for the food on Thursday, by the way,” Sam mentions then grumbles at Dean. “Dean, the salsa.”

Dean just grunts. No little brother is going to tell him how much salsa to eat.

Mrs. Martinez smiles and nudges the salsa towards Sam, away from Dean. He notices but he saves the glare for Sam. “Good, good. Did Marina tell you about the onions?” she asks, looking expectantly at both of them. Dean pauses in cutting his piece of carne asada.

“What?” is all he can blurt out.

“We found the food on our front step,” Sam cuts in and then looks at Dean. “I told you that was odd.”

Dean can’t help but bristle. He’s agitated and it shows. His stomach coils and turns.

Whatever some people might say, Dean Winchester is not stupid. He’d thought it no big deal at the time—who was hanging around their door at six pm on a Thursday?—but he shut the window without a second thought and opened the door to find food on their front step.

They hadn’t been that loud.

“Excuse me,” Dean mumbles and pushes away from the table, running to their house. He feels everything slip away from him. Everything they’ve worked so hard to maintain, to prove to themselves that they could have this kind of life without fucking it up. The carefully constructed reality he’s poured his entire being into over the course of a few months just so Sammy could have a solid roof over his head and a safe place to sleep.

He doesn’t make it to the bathroom. It’s a small miracle that he makes it to the kitchen sink. At least, he thinks, no one has to hold his hair back. A minute later he’s still hacking away when a massive, warm hand clasps around his left shoulder.

“I’ll make some tea,” he hears his brother mumble. Sam goes to one of the bathrooms to get water for the kettle.

When Sam comes back into the kitchen, Dean’s finished physically vomiting. “How are you so fucking calm about this?” he croaks, wiping angrily at his mouth, a sour taste rolling inside it. “She _heard_ us. I told you. She’s got it out for us—always has!” He can’t make eye contact with Sam but he’s looking in Sam’s general direction; he’s dizzy but he can still manage to yell.

A response isn’t immediately given, which makes Dean angrier.

Before he knows it, he’s shouting and seeing red.

“I told you Sam! We don’t get a happily ever fucking after, not us, not people _like us_. This, all of this, it’s never gonna be for us! Fuck!” He’s ripping Sam a new one but he knows he’s also screaming at himself. What a fool to think that someone like Dean Winchester—with all the literal and figurative blood on his hands—could have a decent, normal life. It’s like John’s standing behind him—or is he next to Sam?—and commanding him to take care of Sammy.

It’s not that he doesn’t have more to say but this thing has made residence on his chest. It’s dark and cruel; it coils and flexes its claws deep into the soft tissue of his heart and pulls. It has a sharp little mouth that sinks into the skin Sammy put his hand over just a few hours ago.

 

“Dean! Dean!”

He can hear Sam shouting. Or is that John?

He’s probably lecturing him.

Dean tries to say something—he just needs to lay down—but his mouth opens and the only thing let out is a strangled gasp.

 

He feels himself pitch forward in a terrifyingly familiar way, the thing on his chest openly screeching and laughing as it drags him down.


End file.
